


Because

by parabolica (orphan_account)



Category: Eye Candy (TV)
Genre: Exhibitionism, M/M, Mirrors, Voyeurism, creepers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-03
Updated: 2016-03-03
Packaged: 2018-05-24 12:06:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6153243
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/parabolica
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He's watching. He's always watching.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Because

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sandrine Shaw (Sandrine)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sandrine/gifts).



Tommy wakes to immense heat.

His first thought is _Fire_ , but as he struggles through hazy layers of sleep to full consciousness, he realises there’s no alarm, no sirens, no smoke. The air, when he unsticks his dry lips enough to drag in a hungry lungful, is hotter than hell. The sheets are soaked. He’s swimming in sweat—like, total immersion. If it were blood, he’d have been dead long ago.

He gets to his feet, his head swinging at the effort. Man, he stinks. His shorts seem to slop about him, drenched in old, cold sweat. Fresh sweat covers his chest, runs down his back. He can barely see for it in his eyes, and when he licks his lips he can’t taste salt. Must’ve sweated it all out.

The windows beckon. Tommy yanks at the curtain and gets the sash open, sticks his head out into an indifferent New York night.

It’s raining. Thank fuck.

He keeps his head out of the window, breathing deeply, until his face is soaked with rainwater and his body runs with goosebumps. A breeze rattles through the room, stirring a pile of papers from the bedside table. Satisfied that he’s okay now, Tommy ducks back inside but leaves the window wide.

Most of the heat has dissipated, but the room still retains a memory of it. The exposed brickwork is warm to the touch and the floorboards have lifted slightly, the way they do in summer. He goes through the rest of the apartment, sensitive to the changes in temperature. The air con unit is too hot to touch, the radiators likewise.

In the kitchen, he sits down with an isotonic drink and sets about replenishing the lost salts from his body. A headache clouds his mind, but his thoughts are sharp. No way was this an electrical glitch. Everything was reset as soon as he opened the window.

Which means someone’s watching him.

Someone with the ability to manipulate electrical appliances.

Tommy swigs the last of his drink and wonders why Bubonic would be hassling him again. Why now? It’s not the anniversary. That’s been and gone months ago. The whole Cyber Crimes Unit was braced for something big—a DDOS attack, a virulent eraser worm, loss of power to Manhattan—and nothing had happened. Nothing, except they’d been exceptionally jumpy all day, and the day after that, and the one after that, too.

But today? Today is just another day. Tommy rubs his head, then scrapes his palm over his chin, feeling the scratch of stubble. His tongue feels twice its normal size and he knows he should drink more to avoid a dehydration hangover, but he’s so fucking tired and— _confused_ , frankly.

Which is probably what Bubonic wants.

“Why?” he says aloud to the silent kitchen.

A distant beep answers him.

Tommy freezes. He pretends he hadn’t heard the message alert on his phone and, taking his time, opens the fridge again and selects a second bottle. Keeping everything nice and casual he drinks, tosses the empties into the recycling, then goes into the bathroom to wash his face.

Finally he heads back to bed. On the nightstand his phone waits. He thumbs it, the screen lighting up. One message from an unknown number. The answer to his question.

_Because I can._

*

He doesn’t say anything to the unit. No doubt Sergeant Shaw will be pissed as hell when she finds out. Maybe he should have reported it after what happened last time, but this feels different. Last time he’d had all his stuff taken from his apartment, his dog had almost been put down, and he’d been beaten up by a guy who’d accused him of sleeping with his girlfriend on the evidence of a lousy photoshopped picture.

This time... What? Bubonic had turned up the heating so high he’d woken uncomfortable and sweaty. Annoying, but hardly on the same scale.

Unless, of course, that was just an opening gambit.

Tommy borrows a couple of items from the office and takes them home. He sweeps every inch of the apartment, searching for any indication that the place is bugged, that he’s being listened to or watched.

It comes back clean, so he does it again. Slower this time, biting back impatience.

The result is still the same.

*

That night he goes about his routine the way he always does, but with a tremor of anticipation. He tells himself not to expect another proxy visit. Lightning doesn’t strike the same place twice, after all. Even so, he makes sure he has plenty of isotonic drinks in the fridge, and just in case Bubonic decides to do the opposite of the stunt he pulled last night, Tommy places a pile of blankets on the floor beside his bed.

He gets undressed and slides between clean sheets. Nothing nicer than fresh laundry; the smell of the detergent, the texture of the linen, cool and crisp against his skin... He wiggles his toes and settles down, staring up at the ceiling.

The apartment echoes with emptiness. It was one of the reasons why he’d got a dog, even though his working hours didn’t really fit dog ownership. He’d paid someone to walk Boris, and of course the mutt preferred her to him. After Bubonic’s little trick, he’d decided it would be safer for Boris to have a new owner. He still saw the dog occasionally in the park, and Boris would look at him and wag his tail, and Tommy kidded himself that it was in recognition and thanks.

He punches the pillow and turns onto his side. Maybe he should get another pet. Something to make this place seem less lonely. A goldfish. It wouldn’t need much upkeep, and it sure as hell wouldn’t mind if he wasn’t home to play with it.

Tommy yawns, his eyes closing. Maybe it’s not the lack of a pet that’s the problem, but the lack of a home. Really, Bubonic did him a favour last year, inviting all those people to take his stuff. He’s lived pared-down ever since, and it suits him, that minimalistic bullshit. Maybe he should make the commitment properly, paint the walls white and get some matting, a couple of orchids in nice stone vases...

The image makes him snort. Still smiling, he drifts off to sleep.

Noise wakes him.

Violent, brutal noise that sounds like the screaming of anguished souls, the pounding of drums, the destruction of cities. Tommy jerks awake in a cold sweat, heart pounding, automatically reaching for his gun. Realisation floods through on the heels of adrenalin. Words pierce the cacophony; phrases become distinct. He hears violins, timpani, woodwind, and then a voice that soars and soars, a soprano of such intensity it threatens to shatter his skull like a wineglass.

The gun still in his hand, Tommy throws back the sheets and goes in search of the source of the noise.

A small but obviously powerful stereo system sits in the middle of the floor in the living room. He yanks out the cable and isn’t overly surprised when the assault on his eardrums continues. Any louder and the soundproofing his landlord had bragged about—and charged extra for—wasn’t going to be of much use and the whole neighbourhood would be awake. Tommy nudges the stereo with his foot, but what a surprise, even depressing the power button doesn’t do shit. He’s considering shooting the damn thing and to hell with the paperwork about discharging a firearm in an unwarranted situation when the music stops.

Just like that. Mid-aria, or whatever it’s called.

Tommy exhales in relief, and because he’s curious, because he can’t leave it alone, he says aloud, “Why?”

His eardrums sting too much for him to hear the answering beep on his phone, but he’s sure there is one. He pads back to bed in time to see the light fading from the screen, and he taps the device back into life to read the message from the unknown number.

_Because I can._

*

He enters the apartment humming with the stink of manure. A huge pile of it had been dumped, quite literally dumped, outside his door. A delivery note had promised the rest tomorrow. As soon as he’d seen that, Tommy called the company to cancel it. He’d had to pay a cancellation fee, and then when he’d asked if they could collect up the manure and take it away, he’d had to pay extra for that, too.

“Someone must really hate you,” the delivery guy said cheerfully.

Tommy had agreed, but now he thinks about it, he’s not so sure. The heating, the loud music, a pile of shit—these are minor irritants, child’s play for a man who’d wiped out the traffic-light grid in DC and was responsible for the death of nineteen civilians. No, this wasn’t done from hatred. Bubonic just wanted his attention.

“Just because you can, doesn’t mean you should,” Tommy says into the silence of the apartment.

He expects an answering beep on his phone. Instead a familiar voice issues from somewhere in the room: “So now you’re delving into ethics, Detective Calligan. How extraordinary.”

“No, really, why are you doing it?” Tommy looks around, trying to ascertain where the speakers are hidden. “Why me and not the department as a whole? It wasn’t just me involved in her arrest. It was a team effort.”

Bubonic’s laughter echoes from the bare walls. “Are you attempting to pass the buck?”

“Not at all.” Hands on hips, Tommy turns in slow rotation, wishing he knew where to direct his focus. He ends up facing the TV, almost expecting to see the flicker-hiss of static leap across the screen, but that was the Flirtual Killer’s style, not Bubonic’s. “Look, I haven’t reported this yet, but if it continues...”

“You haven’t reported it?” Something in Bubonic’s tone. Something a little like bemusement.

Tommy pounces on it. “Did you want me to report it? Did you expect it?”

“I’m not sure what I expected, Detective. You’re a rather impulsive personality. Given enough time and observation, I imagine I could write an algorithm to anticipate your decisions, but that would be a shame.”

“You like surprises, huh.”

“As do you.”

A hint of smugness has crept into that careful, well-modulated voice. It scratches at Tommy, makes him pissed, and he goes over to the closet, delves into his gym bag, and takes out the bug-sweepers. He holds them up, activates them, and begins to go over every inch of the apartment again.

“You’re wasting your time,” Bubonic tells him. “They’re undetectable.”

“Nothing’s undetectable.”

“These are.” Tone snappish at Tommy’s lack of belief, Bubonic continues, “I’ve been watching you for weeks, Detective. Months, even.”

Tommy pauses, tilts his head. “Why? And don’t say because you can. That’s not an answer.”

“Why?” Bubonic’s echo suggests consideration. “Because I like watching you.”

The equipment almost slips from his fingers. Tommy has to sit down. “That’s not an answer, either.”

“Nevertheless,” Bubonic says, voice serious, “it’s the only one you’ll get.”

*

It should be weird, going home to a place where his privacy has been compromised, but Tommy finds he doesn’t mind it as much as he probably should. He justifies it by telling himself that as long as Bubonic is watching him, he’s not cooking up mayhem anywhere else. Government servers are safe while a master hacktivist spies on a cop like a creeper.

He returns the bug-sweepers to the unit, and when Yeager happens to mention some upgraded equipment, he doesn’t bother taking them home.

The apartment isn’t empty anymore. Going home to the disembodied voice of a sociopath wasn’t exactly what he was imagining when he’d thought of the future, but this is New York, and that makes this—whatever it is—almost normal.

They talk, and it’s disturbingly like they’re a couple. Bubonic wakes him every morning before the alarm, sometimes with loud music or the recorded sounds of elephants stampeding, but mostly with his voice. With pithy comments on the quality of his sleep, how many times he’d rolled over in the night, and imitations of how he snored. With reports of crimes committed, not all of which had been reported to the police. With sarcastic, but astute, remarks on the state of New York, of the country, of world events.

Tommy talks back over his breakfast, calls out a goodbye as he leaves. When he comes home, Bubonic greets him. They talk about work—well, Tommy talks about his work, blurring or omitting certain details, but it’s not like it’s hard for Bubonic to find out exactly what he’s talking about.

If he’s in the mood, Bubonic will sometimes help Tommy out. Indirectly, of course; there’s no flashing neon sign pointing to the bad guys. Instead Bubonic constructs a web of dead-ends and traps and puzzles, and though Tommy knows he should be angry at this waste of police time, he reminds himself he’s not actually on police time. He’s at home, and besides, this is a challenge. One he enjoys.

Occasionally they argue. For all the space around them, occasionally they get too close. Bubonic is still grieving. Tommy understands what that’s like. They talk about Bubonic’s girlfriend and they talk about Ben’s death. Bubonic’s rage is blunted but not extinguished; Tommy mostly wallows in guilt and nostalgia.

“You don’t forget,” he says.

“You don’t want to forget,” Bubonic responds, then he adds with apparent humour, “But perhaps I project less these days. Maybe I’m working through it.”

“Do you have a good therapist?” Tommy jokes.

“Do you consider yourself so?”

Flustered, Tommy stumbles over the reply. “Ah— Not me. I meant...”

“I know what you meant,” Bubonic says, but softly.

*

Belatedly, Tommy wonders just how all-seeing Bubonic is. The question should have arisen some time ago, but it never had. Now he wants to know, and not for the expected reasons.

He’s in the shower, soaping himself down, when he asks, “Can you see me?”

His voice is pitched low. It would be barely audible over the rush of water even to someone standing right next to him, so Tommy isn’t surprised by the lack of response. He tells himself he’s not disappointed, that he’s pleased to have some privacy, glad that there’s some shred of decency left in Bubonic.

Then Bubonic says, “Yes. I can see you.”

Tommy stands bolt upright. Pretty much _everything_ stands bolt upright, and well now, that’s a shocker. Or maybe it isn’t, not when he’s become so accustomed to Bubonic’s watchful presence in his life. He’s not sure when this crossed the line from freaky-weird to freaky-hot, but it happened and now he has to deal with it.

How does one go about seducing the enemy, anyway? There should be a manual for it. A class to take. An app that offers guidance. Instead all he has is his hand and a half empty bottle of citrus shower gel.

_Do what comes naturally_. He squeezes out some gel and smoothes it over his chest, paying particular attention to his nipples. He runs a hand up his neck into his hair, tips his head back beneath the spray. Takes a mouthful of water and spits it out. He turns, shaking his ass. Soaps his cock and arches his chest under the jet of hot water. His cock slips from his grasp and slaps against his belly. He catches it, gives it a squeeze, and groans.

This should be funny. It’d be such a cliché in a porno, but right now it feels fresh and new, and he’s not laughing. He’s jittery, his pulse rocketing, his breaths gasping through damp steam. Muscles tighten. He thrusts into his slippery fist. He’s gonna come. He’s gonna—

Cold water rains down on him. Tommy yells in shock, letting go of his dick and jerking away from the freezing spray. Curses echo from the wet tiles. He bangs his elbow on the side of the cubicle and jumps out. The mat slides across the floor. He puts a hand out to regain his balance and knocks a bunch of things from the counter to the floor.

In one fell swoop, sexy becomes slapstick.

“What the fuck?” Tommy snatches up a towel and wraps himself in it, then rubs his sore elbow. “Why did you do that?”

When he speaks, Bubonic sounds more rattled than amused. “Because I can.”

*

“Tommy.”

He pauses at the bottom of the apartment stairs, a paper sack of groceries cradled against his chest, keys still swinging from his hand. It’s the first time Bubonic has called him anything other than ‘Detective Calligan’, and that, plus the tone of voice, has him pricking up his ears.

He drops the keys into his jacket pocket and carries the groceries upstairs. “Yeah?”

“The mirror,” Bubonic says.

Tommy looks at it as he reaches the turn on the staircase. Full length, oak framed. A pain in the ass to clean. The residents before the last resident before him had had the mirror placed there, fuck knows why. He barely notices it unless the sun is staring through the stairwell window, and then he gets an eyeful of reflected flash that sears the retinas. Stupid place for a mirror, really.

He stands in front of it and regards himself, one eyebrow cocked at his reflection. “What about it?”

Bubonic seems to hesitate. “I want you to put down the bag and jack off.”

A smile spreads across the face of his reflection. Tommy tries to put outrage into his voice. “Excuse me?”

“I’m not accustomed to repeating myself.” Bubonic sounds annoyed, but beneath it there’s something else. Maybe embarrassment.

Tommy dumps the grocery sack on the next step and faces the mirror again. “Why do you want me to do this?”

“Because I’ve asked you to.”

_Ask a stupid question_... He asks another one. “Why do you like watching me?”

The answer comes back faster this time. “You’re pretty.”

Tommy gives a bark of laughter. “Okay. Thanks.”

“You’re unexpected,” Bubonic adds.

He raises the other eyebrow at his reflection. “You want to explain that?”

“No. Not really.”

Tommy considers his options, but knows his decision was made long ago. He must be out of his mind, but it seems his dick didn’t get the memo and his libido is running cartwheels at the mere thought of doing this. “Okay,” he says again, shrugging out of his leather jacket. “Why the hell not.”

“As simple as that?” The faintest touch of disbelief inhabits Bubonic’s tone.

“You think this is simple?” Tommy grins at the mirror and strips off his t-shirt, then goes to work on his jeans. “With our history, nothing is ever going to be simple.”

“True,” Bubonic muses, “and yet—”

Whatever he was going to say is lost as Tommy pushes his jeans down to mid-thigh, taking his underwear with them. “And yet,” Tommy says, more to tease than to demand an answer. He really isn’t interested in the answer, not when he’s got his hand around his dick and it’s hard and silky and hot as hell.

Hotter, actually, since he gets to watch himself.

Bubonic has fallen silent. Tommy imagines that’s because he’s impressed. He’s not sure why his sociopathic hacktivist voyeur would even be impressed when he’s been watching him for so long—Bubonic has already seen all there is to see—but this feels different. Less like pretence. More like a show a lover would put on.

Those are dangerous thoughts. Tommy skates away from them and concentrates on how his cock feels in his fist. He grips a little tighter and is rewarded with sensation blossoming through him, sweet and low. He groans, hips canting forward. He shuffles his feet, redistributing his weight, then lets go long enough to spit into his palm.

The sun touches the far corner of the mirror. It’s not enough of a distraction to spoil his view. Tommy slides his wet hand the length of his dick. He’s not a narcissist. It’s not his own reflection that’s getting him off. It’s the knowledge that Bubonic is watching him. That Bubonic likes what he sees.

It’s kind of fucked up. Tommy doesn’t care.

“How does it feel?” Bubonic asks, and his voice is like velvet.

Tommy gasps, imagination running riot. Velvet voice, soft mouth. It’s what he pictures all the time these days. The contrasts Bubonic presents. He remembers their meetings, imagines the sharp-beaked mask of stiff black leather and the pale skin beneath, the curve of lips, that rough-smooth voice. Curls, too; he remembers reddish-brown curly hair. He’d like to hold onto those curls. Pull Bubonic close to him. Take off that mask and get Bubonic on his knees, get that soft mouth around his dick and make him suck, make him do it good and hard and—

He’s ridiculously close, and says so.

“How gratifying,” Bubonic says. “Go slower.”

Tommy manages to gasp out a laugh. “You have to be kidding.”

“No.”

It’s almost impossible to put a brake on it, but Tommy manages it. He slows, gaze fixed to the spill of pre-come glistening over the crown of his dick and coating his fingers. The sunlight spreads across the mirror, the track of brilliance throwing his features into shadow. He can smell himself, need and musk, and darkness webs around the outside of his vision.

“Tommy.”

He lifts his gaze, focuses on the mirror. His reflection has vanished. In its place is plain glass, and there on the other side, watching him, eyes intent, lips parted, is Bubonic.

Tommy comes, shuddering with the strain of it. “Bubonic,” he says, painting the glass with his seed. “Oh fuck.”

When he looks again, the mirror has returned to normal, its shiny reflective surface spattered with white. He touches it, the silvered glass cool beneath his fingers.

“Bubonic,” he says again, breath raw in his throat. “Why?”

“Because.” The reply is soft, considered. “Because.”

Tommy leans his forehead against the mirror and laughs.


End file.
